I wake in the night. Sweat pouring from my brow.
I shake from a memory of deep hurt and visions of horror.
I try to crush the pain aside with a smile.
I grabbed my pen. I wrote this poem.
They might have scared my heart, but the will never know how.
To quiet my creative soul. Which keeps me alive.
Instead of my death ending the saga.
No matter what cruelty you wish to show.
No matter how many in your group add to my troubles.
I shall fight harder than before.
Than to let you make me less.
When I know I can be more.
Call me names, accuse me of the "worst of actions."
For we both know the real truth.
It wasn't what you planted.
For those seeds aren't sprouting on the same radio segment as Dr. Ruth.